


dead oaks

by stainedglassbirds



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Gen, Gun Violence, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt, Pain, Panic Attacks, like a lot of it, violence isnt graphic but i sure as hell detail the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stainedglassbirds/pseuds/stainedglassbirds
Summary: “James…” Ironwood pauses, a lack of warmth in his eyes that Oscar should have realized sooner was a warning, “is what my friends call me. To you? It’s General.”or:oscar doesn't have any aura left when he confronts ironwood
Relationships: Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	dead oaks

**Author's Note:**

> if you recognize this fic, it's because i posted it early february this year! i took it down out of anxiety and recently decided to rewrite it and put it back up

“James…” Ironwood pauses, a lack of warmth in his eyes that Oscar should have realized sooner was a warning, “is what my _friends_ call me. To you? It’s _General._ ”   
  
There’s a glint of light, and Oscar doesn’t have a chance to register what’s happening until—   
  
_he didn’t stand a chance, lanky and weak without proper form. the sword is merciful_ _  
_ _  
_ _the infection grew too deadly, they couldn’t help him anymore_ _  
_ _  
_ _he rests on his bed, surrounded by his family, and finally closes his eyes_ _  
_ _  
_ _he dies. it is quick. it is slow. it is agonizing. it is peaceful. it is bright it is dark it is everything and nothing its remarkable and nothing to think of he dies again and again and again and AGAIN—_ _  
_ _  
_ _—(OS—_   
  
**_(OSCAR!)_ **   
  
  
  
there’s pain.   
  
A bullet of searing _pain_ explodes in his chest, excruciating and it hurts it hurts it— time seems to skip as he blacks out for the barest second, the clawing knives bringing him back with a million _stabs_ and he screams, the sound wrenching out of his throat cutting off as he chokes on his own spit— _blood—_ _  
_ _  
_ The world is spinning so fast, colors blurring and merging into a noisy static pounding in his head that almost distracts him from the agonizing pain overtaking his body and _pulsing._ He barely registers he’s kneeled onto the floor, hands scrambling on the ground for any leverage to help ease him and it doesn’t and nothing will help and it _hurts._ _  
_ _  
_ He chokes again, retching and suddenly he can’t _breathe,_ he can’t breathehecan’tbreathehe— the burning in his chest _bursts,_ a garbled shout leaving his mouth as his vision goes black and when he opens his eyes again he’s on the floor.   
  
There’s a lodge in his throat, blocking all the air in the room, his chest knitting itself tighter and tighter, the black edges in his vision growing stronger until he’s sure he’ll pass out, anything to make this _stop._ _  
_ _  
_ It doesn’t come. He lays there, gasping like a fish on land, desperately clawing at his throat and chest.   
  
Tears blur his faint vision and he screws his eyes shut, hoping and praying for darkness to overtake him so at least he won’t have to lay here in agony. But _something_ in his head is pulling as hard as it can, keeping him tethered to consciousness and he doesn’t know why because the pain is so strong it’s the only thing he can think about and he wants it to _end._ The pull grows stronger, desperation filling him that isn’t his own. It’s important. He can’t _think._ _  
_ _  
_ In a jerky, involuntary movement he looks down at himself, and he'd freeze if it wasn't for the fact he can't stop _shaking._

There's red, so much red red _red_ spilt everywhere, staining his clothes and sticky on his hands, a pool of it under him and he'd be sick if he could be anything other than someone biting back screams because of this _torture._ Panic abruptly hits him like a freight train, cutting through the haze and bringing forth a new layer of mental anguish as he realizes with a clarity that shocks him that he's going to die. 

Blood is everywhere, there's no one around to save him, he's slipping and he's going to die he's gonna die he's gonna die he's gonna die _he doesn’t want to die—_   
  
A sob wracks his body, the taste of iron on his tongue mixing with the salty tears. He doesn’t know when Ironwood left but he realizes he’s not here and he’s truly alone, laying here waiting to die.   
  
He curls further in on himself, body protesting any movement and the hole in his chest _screaming._ Before he processes the action he’s reaching for his back, feebly trying to grasp the object attached to it, for _his_ cane, managing to clutch it in his hand and hold it close. He stares at it blearily, unsure of why he went for it, but somehow it helps the tiniest bit.   
  
His friends. His _team,_ the people he considers family, he’s going to leave them behind and they won’t even know until—until _when?_ They didn’t know where he went, what he tried to do, where he is now, lying on the floor and bleeding out.   
  
The thought of Ironwood telling them makes him sick to his stomach, but the thought of them finding his corpse makes him feel even worse.   
  
He just wishes it wasn’t like this.   
  
Pain ricochets up his throat, making him inhale sharply, breath stuttering and choking and forcing him to hack out a series of coughs that nearly rips his throat to shreds. Blood spatters onto the floor.   
  
Oh.   
  
_Oh._ _  
_ _  
_ It’s not like he didn’t know he was going to die, but seeing the blood spit from his mouth suddenly makes it all feel so _final._ He’s really going to die out here, bleeding out due to the hands of a man that’s fallen so far, while an army is coming and his friends aren’t safe and he can’t do anything about it and he’s _alone—_ _  
_ _  
_ _(OSCAR!)_ _  
_ _  
_ He gasps.   
  
The pressure that’s been building in his mind, entirely different from the headache, that’s been pushing and pushing finally breaks with a single shout.   
  
It takes him an uncomfortably long time to register it.   
  
_(Oscar— I—)_ _  
_ _  
_ His mouth is dry, flecks of blood on his tongue. It takes him a moment to rework it, fumbling with the movement and feeling like a child who’s just learning to speak. He hates how much he’s struggling just to get out a _simple_ name. “Oz—” his breath hitches, “O—Oz… pin…?” he croaks. Part of him wonders if he’s imagining the voice, just to give himself a semblance of comfort.   
  
_(I’m here— you shouldn’t— you don’t need to talk, you should be conserving energy, but I’m here, Oscar. Gods, I’m so sorry)_ _  
_ _  
_ “Not… your fault.”   
  
_(I should have been there for you sooner. I didn’t think he would do… this. You’ve never deserved the burden of the world on your shoulders and you certainly didn’t deserve this. I—I should have done more for you, you’re so young—)_ _  
_ _  
_ “Stop,” he sighs. A strained, taut smile stubbornly places itself on his face. “...I missed you too,” he whispers.   
  
The lights dim, and he thinks this isn’t the worst way to go. At least he’s not alone.   
  
_(Oscar, wait, let me—)_ _  
_ _  
_ _(Oscar?)_ _  
_ _  
_ _(No, no, NO, Oscar, please, I—)_   
  
He closes his eyes. 


End file.
